


Magda's Tale

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, General, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Economics, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2002-07-29
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What does the barmaid at the Prancing Pony do to earn a little extra coin?  Read on, and find out.  Features Breelanders, Rangers, Dunedain, Barliman Butterbur, Bill Ferny, Nob, Bob, and the various humans, dwarves and hobbits and other creatures who inhabit or pass through Bree.</p><p>Mithril Awards 2003 - Finalist - Best Characterisation - Original Character</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 3000 Third Age, May

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

  
Magda

#### Notes & Disclaimer:

1) Bree and its environs, The Prancing Pony, Barliman Butterbur, Bill Ferny, Nob, Bob and Strider are all creations of JRR Tolkien, and are used without permission of the Tolkien estate in this work of fanfiction.

2) The Angle is an extrapolation by Michael Martinez - see the article [  
"Of Thegns and Kings and Rangers and Things"](http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/tolkien/64660).

3) The notion of high and low Dunedain families as well as that of named houses are taken from Isabeau of Greenlea's story " _Captain My Captain_ ", which can be found at the [Henneth Annun Story Archives](http://www.henneth-annun.net/index.cfm).

4) Most of the rest of it is my own extrapolation from there.

5) No money is being made from this story. Magda won't even share her tips with me.

  


* * *

  
**3000 Third Age, May**

The Prancing Pony can be something of a cesspit at times. Particularly when Bill Ferny and his crew turn up for a drinking session. They're young enough and fool enough that they seem to enjoy getting thoroughly and completely drunk, to the point where they lose all semblance of decency or manners. Then I get to dodge their hands while collecting the empties and swat them away when they try to grope me. All part of the job, you see. Barliman always tells me that I needn't to work on the days when Ferny's gang comes in for a drink, but I always refuse to stay at home. For one thing, if I do, they'll think they've cowed me. For seconds, if I miss one of their drinking sessions, I miss a fair deal of crucial information. Not one of them can hold their tongues when drunk.  


One of the Rangers is due in some time in the next day or so. I'm their main intelligencer in Bree, so they usually know to come straight here. Besides which, The Prancing Pony is the only place in town which offers accommodation. Barliman knows of my interests, so to speak, although he thinks that I merely pass on the town gossip and news for those rangers who have kin here and pick up news of my own Ranger kin in the north. Which I do, but that's fairly incidental. My true task is to keep an ear to the ground and listen for signs of trouble. If there's one thing that the Dunedain have learned in hundreds of years of patrolling Eriador, it's that a little interference of the right type in the right place at the right time can save a lot of bother further down the line. That's the main reason why I do what I do.  


I've been doing this for two years now since the last contact here, a herbwoman called Breelindir, died in an accident. I'm part Dunadan myself, although you'd not guess it to look at me. I'm not of the high families; rather my kin are of a family which was larger and more well-connected. They wound up having to breed out into Bree, rather than breeding in. So I'm about half and half Dunadan and Breeland blood. I'm short and stocky, like a lot of the Breefolk, although it seems my family has retained the Dunadan colouring, more or less. My hair is a bit lighter than the norm for the Dunedain - a dark brown, with a lot of red lights in it, rather than the standard blue-black. I've also got the grey eyes, through some freak. (Both of my brothers have eyes of brown, which means that they blend in even better down here than I do.) I'm the best of us at intelligencing, though. Men with drink in them will talk with a woman, something I learned when I was nursing Father through his grief over Mother's death. Men with drink in them will also try other things to any woman within range; Father taught me well. I'm able to defend myself against those tricks now.   


Either way, telling you all of this isn't getting those empties collected from Ferny's table, so it's high time I got to and started collecting them. This should be fun.  


It is. Provided your definition of "fun" includes "being surrounded by a group of drunk rowdies, being groped, having hands forced up your skirts, or down your blouse and tugging at your hair while you can't retaliate for fear of dropping the mug in your hands". Mine doesn't. As it was, I was hard put not to deal out slaps and kicks in order to get away from them. Being surrounded like that does tend to set off my nerves. I smiled sweetly at all of them, while I collected the mugs and tankards that were scattered around the table.   


"Now lads, hands to yourselves, remember," I reminded them. Usually that was enough to jog their memories of their manners, even when they were far gone in ale, but not today. Damn. I looked across at Barliman, seeking permission for what I was going to do next. He nodded. Good oh.  


It's about the only trick of my Dunadan relatives that I know of, this talent of being able to fade into the background. I've found it very useful, especially when I'm being pestered. The only problem is that it only works when they're not touching me, or paying me obvious attention, so I have to deal out some rather solid slaps to make them let go. Once that's done, I tip the wink to Barliman, who suddenly appears to notice what they're up to and gives a hoy. That's my cue to vanish into the background, which I do with the ease of long practice. Once I'm out the door, I should be safe enough, especially as I can sneak back in within about five minutes without them noticing.   


Well, almost. This time it didn't work that well. I was sneaking out, while someone else was sneaking in. Tall, very tall, with the hawklike nose and high cheekbones that tend to mark out the Rangers in this town. Well, there's my contact. Of course, I can tell from the bemused look on his face that he doesn't know that I'm his contact here. Bugger and damnation. A quick scan tells me that I've not bumped into this Ranger before, you should pardon the pun. Ah well, he's tall enough and strong enough and probably canny enough to be able to cope with a gang of roughnecks. Old Barliman may disapprove of the Rangers on principle, simply because they don't stay in the one place, like the Breefolk, but underneath he approves of 'em. About the only thing he has a problem with them about is the fact that I seem enamoured of them (as far as he's aware). He's scared stiff that he'll lose his best barmaid in years to a swollen belly and a cottage up near the Angle. Hmph. Little does he know quite how unlikely _that_ is.  


I beg the ranger's pardon and duck out the door quickly, before Ferny and his crew can spot me and start their sport over again. Behind me, I can hear Barliman grunt disapprovingly on seeing his new "guest", but I'm away out the door and down the corridor toward the stables. I take a quick look around, seeking out the newcomer's horse, if he's brought one. It appears he hasn't. However, Bob is there, currying down one of the hobbit-ponies which lives in the stable most of the time.   


"Who's the newcomer?" I asked him.  


Bob grinned. He knows of my interest in the rangers, although he doesn't know of the reason for it. He just thinks I'm curious about my kin (he's a hobbit, he knows my family tree forwards, backwards and round corners). I don't bother to disillusion him. I get the occasional letter from my kin up at the Angle, delivered by whichever Ranger is passing through Bree, but most of my interest in whichever Ranger is passing through is purely professional. No, not _that_ profession, although I'm as adept at it as the local whore. It's another way of getting information, after all.  


"'is name's Strider, round these parts. I've no notion what your kin'd call 'im," Bob told me.  


I nodded. I'd not heard the name before, although I got most of the nicknames that the various Rangers were referred to by down here. Interesting.   


"'e's generally very polite, but 'e dun't say much, just like the rest of 'em," Bob continued. "'E were very friendly with Mistress Breelindir while she were alive, but aside from that, 'e dun't 'ave much ter do with the women."  


"Thanks for that, Bob," I tell him. "Can I get you something from the kitchens?"  


"Nay, but a mug of ale wouldn't go astray," he replies, with a grin. I grinned back over my shoulder at him, as I headed back in toward the common room.  


"I'll see what I can do!" I laughed.  


I crept back into the common room with my customary stealth, coughing as I reappeared at Barliman's elbow. I noted that the Ranger I'd bumped into had taken a place in the corner by the chimney-nook. It was a place I was starting to think of as the ranger-seat, simply because just about every single ranger who came there gravitated to that one spot. I knew why they chose it: it was the one seat in the room which allowed an uninterrupted vantage of all of the various entrances and exits. Just by sitting there, a person could monitor the comings and goings of the entire room, without having to stir, or even be obvious about it.   


"Ah, there you are, Magda. Be a good girl and get Strider there a meal from the kitchens, would you?" Barliman had spotted me and was getting me out of the common room. Apparently young Ferny had been making his threats again. I'd heard them all: how Bill Ferny was one day going to be a big man in the town of Bree; how Butterbur had better be polite to him now and keep the ale flowing; how he'd get his revenge on that uppity wench (me); every single one of his beery mutterings. The first time I'd heard them, I'd been tempted to send them all off to the Angle straight away. I'd had the sense to check with Barliman first, though. Bill Ferny gets vicious in his cups; all this muttering is a prelude to physical violence, but it doesn't change much from one episode to the next. I'd mentally marked young master Ferny down as someone to keep an eye on, but aside from that, I kept quiet about his mumblings.  


Obedient to Barliman's instructions, I headed back out to the kitchens, although not before drawing a tankard of ale for Bob. I took the tankard out to the hobbit, who nodded appreciatively as I dropped it off on the windowsill of the stables. Then off to the kitchens, where Barliman's apple-cheeked wife, Jenny, quickly got together a plate of food for the ranger. From her care with the plate, I gathered that this "Strider" was one of the more regular visitors to Bree, something which intrigued me. The Chieftain was supposed to be fairly well known about these parts; I'd been looking forward to meeting him. Still, I don't suppose that this "Strider" was likely to be him. After all, the Chieftain was supposed to have been raised by the elves up around Rivendell, supposed to be part-elf himself, from what I'd heard. I'd been lucky enough to see those two elven princes one time they'd come through the Angle, so I had a guess at what the Chieftain was supposed to be like. Certainly it wasn't this long, lanky, raw-boned man who hunkered down in the corner, smoking away at a pipe. Of course, that didn't mean that I wasn't going to drop off the information I had already with this "Strider", anyway.   


"Here's your meal, sir," I said, smiling at him as I deposited the plate on the table before him. "Looks as though the stars are going to be bright tonight."  


There, that was the marker put out for him. I just hoped that he was quick as most of the others to pick up on the words. I couldn't use the usual sign at the moment; it was still daylight outside, although the sun was setting rapidly.   


I wasn't disappointed. A flicker of surprise in his eyes, then the response. "Not so bright as in the wild, I fear."  


I cocked my head to one side. "Why, I'd heard that the northern stars were brightest."  


A slight nod. "Meet me outside, near the stables, in an hour. We'll see."  


Right, appointment made. I smiled flirtatiously at him, so that if young Ferny's gang were watching, they'd guess that a different type of assignation was being made, then turned on my heel, heading back to the bar. Butterbur shook his head at me.   


"You'll get no satisfaction from your tricks with that one, lass," he told me, disapprovingly. "He's had any number of the village girls cocking an eye at him any time these twenty years, not a one of them has had a drop of luck with him."  


"Maybe I'll turn out different?" I suggested cheekily.   


"Maybe," was the rather sceptical response.  


The hour passed fairly quickly. When Ferny's gang progressed into a beery brawl with one another, I sneaked out of the common room, heading for the stables via the kitchens. I was nervous; I could do with some of Jenny's stew to settle my stomach and give me some ballast for the upcoming interview. I begged a small bowl from the mistress of the inn, taking it with me to the yard near the stables. There I leaned up against the wall, in a dark corner where I could watch the doors leading out from the inn itself. I'd have adequate warning if the strange ranger came out using one of those.   


Of course, I'd have no warning whatsoever should he choose to walk out the front door of the inn, then walk around to the stable doors (which this man had). Just a sudden sense of a tall presence next to me.  


"The evening star is beautiful this night," he said. I could tell from his voice that he was smiling, although I had no idea why. For myself, I was busy trying to choke down a mouthful of hot stew without burning my mouth or throat.   


"You'd be Magda, then?" he asked, as though he hadn't noticed my discomfort. He was a Ranger. I knew he had.  


I nodded, swallowing hastily. Luckily I'd managed to suck in enough cool air to make the mouthful of stew slightly less scorching on my throat, but I could still feel it all the way down to my stomach.   


"I've got some information that needs to be passed on to the Chieftain," I told him. Now, what could be in that phrase to make him smile so?   


"I shall see that he hears it," I was told. He was still smiling in that strange way, as though there were a joke there that only he knew of. Possibly the sight of a low-bred tavern wench near choking on her stew, I suppose. Now that I had the leisure to observe him a bit more closely, he had all the marks of a high-family northerner. The extreme height was just one of them; there were others, mainly to do with the shape of the eyes, and the angle of the jaw and cheekbones. I looked about for the star on his cloak, trying to figure out which of the Houses he was a son of.   


"Well, there's word of another bear in the woods to the north and west," I told him. "This one's supposed to have taken a few cows up around Archet way, as well as being spotted by a couple of the Shire patrols. It's been active since about mid-February, which doesn't bode well. It also seems to have lost its fear of Men."  


That got a nod.   


"There's also tales from Archet of wolves coming down from the north. Nobody's seen the wolves, but the folk there are frightened."  


"Most important thing is that there's starting to be strange folk heading north, apparently. We've not seen any of them in Bree, but the peddlers are telling strange tales. Strange beasts in the woods, ponies being scared for no reason that they can find. There was a party of Dwarfs who set out for the Blue Mountains about a year ago from Bree. Last month we got a party coming back from the Blue Mountains looking for them. From the little I was able to pick up, it was suspected that they hadn't got as far as Bree at all. They were all mightily surprised to find out that this first party had been here. It sounds as though the roads to the south and west are being patrolled by something, although nobody has any knowledge of what."  


This drew another nod out of the ranger, although he looked rather thoughtful about this last. He stood silent for a long while, lost in contemplation. I took the opportunity to down some more of my (now-cooled) stew. Eventually the ranger spoke.  


"Are you able to send a bird north?"  


I nodded. I kept a small coop of birds at my brothers' farm, I could easily get time off on the morrow and go out and visit them. They'd welcome me with open arms, as my visits to the farm tended to mean that they got a good meal for a change, rather than having to bach for themselves. "What would you have me send?" I asked.  


"Say that the patrol at Sarn Ford needs to be increased in strength, to the full troop of thirty," I was told. I gasped in shock.  


"I can't send that out under my rune! I'd get the reinforcements, sure enough, but they'd all be stopping by here first to scold me for being so bold! I'd probably even wind up with the Chieftain himself coming down here to box my ears for me!"  


This time it wasn't a smile, but a laugh that greeted my statement. By this time I was incensed.  


"It's all very well for you to laugh," I hissed up at him, "but I'm not some high-blood lord. I'm just a bloody crossbreed who's barely tolerated by her high-and-mighty northern relatives for the sake of who my mother was. If I send such a thing, I'll be likely to lose my posting here. Nobody will want an intelligencer who gives bloody cheeky orders to the Captains up at the Angle. Then what's left for me? I can stay a barmaid the rest of my days, or marry one of the farmers around here. Better yet, I could wed one of their oxen, if I've still the taste for intelligence."  


I was shaking with anger, but I knew that I'd still need to send the message. "I'll send your message for you, Strider, but I won't send it under my own rune. Write it down, I'll take it and send it tomorrow, but it needs to be signed with your rune. You understand me? You can afford to have the Captains questioning you. I can't."  


A nod from the ranger. "I apologise for having offended you, Mistress Magda."  


"Apology accepted," I said, rather crisply. "And it's Magda. I'm no man's mistress, so I just wear my own name." With that, I picked up my bowl and headed for the door to the kitchens, not looking back. I'd made it as far as the door when I felt someone behind me. Expecting the ranger, I turned angrily, but found instead that I was looking at Bill Ferny. He was drunk, drunk enough to be at the vicious stage, where he'd lash out at anyone. Damn. I instinctively tried to fade into the shadows nearby, but he was too quick for me, catching me by the wrist.   


"Oh no you don't, wench!" he muttered, forcing his face near to my ear. "Bloody well turn me down for some lousy ranger!"  


He had a firm grasp on my wrist, which he was rapidly parlaying into a solid embrace of me from behind. His other hand was coming around and groping my breasts. I could feel him against my back. I knew from the tales of the village girls that Bill Ferny liked a girl who fought. It meant that he felt justified in striking out at her, bruising her. I'd seen what had happened to Lucy Goatleaf when she'd caught Bill's eye. The bruises had taken many days to fade. There'd been rumours of more cuts and bruises where they couldn't be seen; other rumours spoke of her uncle Harry having held her down and taken his turn also. I was determined to avoid ending up that way. So, rather than tensing up in his embrace, I relaxed.  


It worked. He lessened off the grip on my arm, allowing me to twist my wrist out of his grasp. Once free, I stepped backward onto his foot, hard, then rushed forward out of his reach. He roared with frustration, anger and pain, reaching forward for me. But I was ready. As I say, my father had taught me well. I ducked beneath his clutching hands and drove a fist low into his belly.   


He doubled over, to wind up lying groaning on the floor. I kicked him in the belly, for good measure, as he lay there.  


"Touch me again, Bill Ferny, and I swear by the Valar above, I'll geld you," I told him, my voice shaking with anger.   


"Are you safe?" The voice from behind me was that of the ranger, Strider. He came up to stand near me. "I saw what he tried to do. He was meaning to harm you."  


"I'll give him another chance because he's probably the most cowardly little sneak in these parts," I told the ranger, speaking loudly enough that Ferny could hear. "The thought of losing his precious dangly bits should do the trick, I'd say. You know I mean it, Ferny. You know my brothers will mean it too, when they hear of what you've tried. So from now on, your hands stay off me. Else it's the old two-brick-trick for you, laddiebuck!"   


I turned away from Ferny, away from the ranger and walked off, toward the staff quarters. I was more shaken than I was showing. I dearly wanted to get out of public view for a while. I fled up the narrow stair to my room, where I sat down on the edge of the bed, hugging myself tight and shaking like a leaf in a high wind. I was both shocked and frightened to hear a tap at the door.   


"Who is it?" I called, the tension in my body making my voice higher-pitched than usual.  


"Mistress Magda?" Ah, the ranger. It sounded as though he were concerned. I stood up, shaking all over, but mananged to unlatch the door.  


"It's just Magda," I told him, after I'd opened the door to him. "As I told you, I'm no man's mistress. You'd best come in."  


I gestured him into the small room. A narrow bed, a small washstand and the chest where I kept my clothes comprised the whole furnishings of the room. I sat down on the bed once again, while the ranger leaned against the door, staying a careful distance from me. I was still shaking and close to tears. What had just happened in the kitchen yard had been too close to some memories that I'd thought long buried. Memories of what had happened after mother died.   


"What is 'the old two-brick-trick'?" The question came from my erstwhile guest. It was enough to snap me out of my shaking.  


"It's a reference to a rather nasty way of gelding oxen," I told him, pulling myself together through the telling. "You put the bullock into a small pen, then you clap two bricks over the appropriate area. Once the animal gets over the shock, you've got yourself an ox. But it won't trust humans very much."  


He winced. A rather common reaction to that story from men. Despite my shock, I grinned.  


"My brothers feel the same way about it," I told him. "Their method of gelding is to tie a tight cord around the appropriate bits. After a week or so without enough blood, they start to drop off. As far as we can tell, it's less painful for the bullock as well. Plus the bullock doesn't learn to link the pain to humans, so it trusts people."  


He quirked an eyebrow at me. I grinned at him again. "Are there any less ... detailed farm anecdotes that you would share with me?" he asked, smiling faintly.  


I chuckled. "I grew up on a farm outside Bree, m'lord Strider. As a result, I know a lot of farm stories."  


"Just Strider. I'm no lord." A quick smile from the Ranger. A very nice smile, come to think on it. "You mentioned your mother. Was she of the Dúnadan?"  


I nodded. "Not of high lineage, though she could trace her line back to the House of the Nightingale. She met my father when she was ranging through Bree as a young lass. He went North to wed her, but brought her back to Bree. I'm third of four. The fourth killed her. I was ten."  


A nod. "What was your mother's name, if I may ask?"  


"Bronwen."  


Another nod, this time with a touch of sadness. "I met her but the once. A promising Ranger, I thought at the time."  


I nodded my thanks. I knew without having to be told that this was his way of expressing sympathy over her loss.   


"Aye, she would have been," I said. "She was tall and slender, something which often worried the women here. Each of the birthings was hard for her, so none of us knew why she chose to get with child that fourth time. But she would have been a good ranger."  


A nod. "Are you all right?" The question was factual, accompanied by an appraising look. A reminder that each of us had our business to be going on with, if we weren't to raise suspicions in this place. I nodded back and preceeded him out the door.   


As we walked to the stairs, I knew that Nob had spotted the pair of us leaving my room. I gave a grin. Well, that would be another little fillip for my reputation, for none would believe that I'd had a ranger in my room without tumbling him. Given that this one was apparently somewhat elusive, I could probably parlay that into a lot more information from the girls in the village. All of a sudden, this was turning into a very good evening.  


  


* * *


	2. 3018 Third Age, September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does the barmaid at the Prancing Pony do to earn a little extra coin? Read on, and find out. Features Breelanders, Rangers, Dunedain, Barliman Butterbur, Bill Ferny, Nob, Bob, and the various humans, dwarves and hobbits and other creatures who inhabit or pass through Bree.

#### Disclaimers and Notes:

  


  
1) Bree, it's environs, the Prancing Pony, Barliman Butterbur, hobbits, Nob, Bob, Bill Ferny, Harry Goatleaf, Strider, Frodo, Merry, Sam and Pippin are all property of the Tolkien Estate, and used without permission in this work of fan fiction.  
  
2) Everything else is my own extrapolation from the works of JRR Tolkien.   
  
3) No money is being made from this story. Magda still isn't sharing her tips.  
  


  


### 3018 Third Age, September

The arrival of four hobbits out of the Shire would have been a nine-days wonder in Bree these days no matter what they'd done. After all, it had been a long time since there'd been any travellers out of the Shire aside from the occasional peddlers, who'd come up via the Great West Road. What happened in the common room and on the subsequent night just set the seal on things, really. But I'm getting ahead of the tale. Mayhap I should start this one at the beginning for you all.  


They'd caught Butterbur on his way from the common room to the dining parlour, the way he told it to me lately. I'd been minding the tap in the common room, so I didn't see much of this. However, I did notice Strider coming in through the main door. He was looking a bit more battered than he usually did. He greeted me as usual, and took his usual place in the corner by the fire. I took a quick look over the company. Harry Goatleaf from the south gate and Bill Ferny were crouched together at their table, along with a rather sallow fellow from the party of southerners who'd arrived the day before. The Dwarves who'd come in this evening were finally starting to settle into their ale and were muttering among themselves in their own language. I wasn't listening too closely - I don't understand a word of whatever language it is they speak among themselves, but not a one of them will believe that. They're vicious beggars with their axes when they're roused and most of them are my height, if not taller.  


Anyway, when I heard Barliman bellowing for Nob from out in the stableyard, I had no idea of what was happening, I just knew that I was going to lose my cup-gatherer. I couldn't leave the tap neither, not with Ferny in the house. His fingers were far too light for me to leave the cashbox out of sight for longer than a few moments. So, I waited where I was, until Butterbur came back to the tap, gabbling all the while about strange hobbits from the Shire, at which point I took over the task of fetching up the empties. The hobbit-folk from nearby had all come in in force - new arrivals always brought them in, cat-curious they were. There was also about double the number of normal idlers in from the village, as well as some of the more "solid citizen" types, wanting to see the newcomers. In all this bustle, I was easily able to slip around to Strider's table, take his order, his coin, and his reason for being in town in one easy transaction.   


I slipped out to the kitchens. Jenny Butterbur was looking twice as apple-cheeked as ever today, simply due to the amount of cooking she was having to do. I smiled at her.   


"Jenny, I hate to ask this, but Strider's come in. Is there any chance of a plate for him?"  


Jenny laughed, that lovely comfortable chuckle which was so very reassuring. "Aye, surely there is. For such a regular customer, and one who always brings in good coin, there's always a plate to be had."  


She put together a plate for Strider, which I took out to the common room, drawing a half of ale for him as well.  
"There you go, sir," I told him, depositing the meal on his table. "I tell you, we've been that busy lately, I'm having to help out everywhere. Even having to help Bob out in the stables."   
I tipped him the wink at that last, giving him to know that the usual assignation should take place in the usual location, then I ducked back to the tap. For the next quarter of an hour, I was busy serving pints, halves, and cider to the locals, while Barliman was off seeing to the new guests.   


"'Tis time for my mealbreak, Barliman", I told the landlord briefly as he re-entered the common room. He nodded, as I took off my apron and slipped out from behind the bar. I stopped off at the kitchen, picking up the bowl of stew I'd readied for myself when I went to collect Strider's meal. Then I headed out to the stableyard. It was a warm night for late September, yet I still felt a strange chill up and down my back. I didn't have long to wait for the Ranger.   


"Your eyes are keener than mine," I said to him in jest, "tell me how the evening star is tonight."  


"The evening star is as beautiful as ever," he told me, and I could tell he was smiling as he said it. "What news of Bree?"  


"Well, by now you're probably aware of those strangers from the south. They're the first Men up the Greenway from that direction in years. No mention from most of them of anything strange on the journey, neither, which is strange in and of itself.   


"Bill Ferny's suddenly flashing a lot of coin about the town, which is strange as well. All of Bree would know if he'd suddenly decided to do a day's honest work, for the mayor would have it proclaimed by the crier. There's been no sign of that, nor yet any of the chroniclers being asked to record such a strange occurrence.  


"Oh, and another strange party that's come in, just before you did - four hobbits out of the Shire. Barliman's housing them down along in the North wing, in the hobbit rooms there. Never rains but it pours, round here."  


"Do you know the names of the hobbits?" Strider asked me. I thought for a moment. I could remember Barliman babbling on about them, but all of his words had muddled together between the gabble of his voice and the fact that he'd been talking to the ale barrel more than directly to me.  


"I think he mentioned one as being a Gammidge or something like that," I said, trying to juggle the recollections together, "another Brandybuck. Third was Took, if that's a hobbit name?" Here Strider nodded. "The last one was the only one I recognised," I told him. "Underhill. Must be related to someone hereabouts." I have no idea even now what there was in that little speech to make him sigh in relief.   


"Magda, you are worth at least twice the coin we pay you," he told me, giving me a brief hug. "Can you send a bird up to the Angle on the morrow?"  


I nodded. "Remember, if it's going to be a cheeky message to the Captains, it goes under your rune, not mine!"   


He laughed at the old joke between the two of us, but handed me a small scroll for bird transport. I took out the locket I'd had made of great-granda's Ranger star, and secreted the scroll within it. Just in time too - Bob came rushing out, looking slightly breathless.   


"Magda, ye're wanted in the tap. Things is gettin' busy," he told me.  


I gave him a smile. "The word is busier, Bob. I'll be in as soon as I've dropped off my stew plate with Jenny." I knew without looking that Strider had gone his own way back to the common room.   


When I reached the tap again, I could see that there was a fair old crowd in the room. I quickly donned my apron and got to serving the pints and halves as needed. Thus it was that I was behind the bar when the three hobbits from the Shire entered the common room. Old Barliman was acting the genial host by the fireplace for a couple of the dwarves, and some of the southerners, while Strider had returned to his usual spot in the corner. I was amused to see that although he'd probably not been in the room even as long as I had, he'd managed to get hold of a pint of ale, and had his pipe out, giving the impression that he'd never left. I took a look at the newcomers from the Shire (I'm as curious as any other in the tap, it's just that I've a more honest reason for my curiosity than most). Two short, one tall. Well, tall for a hobbit, anyway, and fair for one of them as well. I listened carefully to Barliman's introductions of them to the locals. I'd got two of the names right, but missed on the first. Gamgee, not Gammidge.   


The Shirefolk were quickly taken in by the local hobbit-folk, and asked all sorts of questions. I couldn't hear all of them that clearly (the tap was a fair way from the table that the hobbits had taken as their own), but from the snatches I could hear in between the conversations at the tap, I gathered that this Underhill character was writing a book of some kind. Strange enough. Yet Strider seemed to be listening in very hard to the conversation as well. Even stranger - usually he didn't pay much attention to the hobbits, being more interested in keeping track of the known local ruffians such as Bill Ferny and his like.   


The thought reminded me of something. Yes, there was Ferny and that sallow Southerner, both of them watching those newcomer hobbits like cats watching a flock of birds. Something odd there. Very odd. Plus that strange chill down my back hadn't gone away. I started to feel very, very uneasy about the evening, for no reason I could put my finger on.   


While there's foresight in some of the Dunadan, there's generally more in the high families than the low. My family wasn't one that was blessed with it, generally speaking, although I sometimes got hunches which were pretty damn accurate. This night, I was getting the feeling that anything with sense would be best off staying within doors and fastening those doors shut tight. A feeling which grew stronger whenever I looked at that Underhill character from the Shire. Who was he related to, anyway? Who was he reminding me of? For he reminded me of someone, although I had no clear recollection of who.  


I kept on with my serving and ducking out to collect the empties, all the while worrying away at that little memory snatch, trying to get some use out of it. No luck, of course, because the more I tried to grasp it, the faster it slipped out of reach, like a greased frog.  


I was out collecting empties when Underhill began his song. I'd noticed Strider going over to speak with him earlier, as well as catching snatches of the story that the others were telling. Something about a birthday party, it seemed. Now, why did that catch at my memory again? What was it I was trying to remember? Anyhow, I'd managed to get myself around to the point where I was by Strider's table, where I quickly told him of my hunches, and as much of the memory as would make itself visible.   


I happened to be looking at the hobbits table when Mr Underhill did his caper, leaping in the air, and then vanishing. It was the vanishing that did it. All of a sudden, that memory I'd been chasing came back, full strength. An older hobbit, with a bit of a family resemblance to that Underhill character, sitting in the tap with a group of dwarfs, telling the story of...  


"Mad Baggins!" I exclaimed. "Of course! That was what it was." I turned to Strider. "That Underhill fellow is bound to be related to the hobbit who told me of Mad Baggins and his disappearance, near on twenty year ago. I'm sure I told you about him - came through with a group of dwarfs, headed east. I've no idea where he be at this point, but if you could find him, he'd probably have something to say about that Underhill fellow. Might be able to explain why Bill Ferny, Harry Goatleaf and that squint-eyed southerner was all so interested in him, too."  


I'd noticed the three of them slipping out the door. I decided that the table where they'd been sitting could do with a bit of cleaning up, and briskly wandered off to deal with it. Meantime, Barliman was trying to soothe down the local hobbit-folk, while also trying not to look as smug as a cat with a mouse caught in the cream-pot. I suppressed a snort of laughter. He knew that everyone in the house would spread the word to their friends, and that the whole story would become even more of a nine-days wonder than before. We'd have half the town in here tomorrow, all wanting ale and cider and somewhere to talk until the mystery was sufficiently hashed out. I resigned myself to a busy few days.  


Myself, I was still feeling uneasy. I knew where that snatch of memory was from now, but I still didn't like the way the night felt. This night I was going to spend at home with my man. I felt the sudden need to be wrapped up in someone else's embrace, to feel a human warmth against my back as I slept. All of a nasty, the night had turned chill. I'd be sleeping in my own bed this night, rather than staying in the staff quarters of the inn. Barliman would understand, so would Jenny. So would my husband.  


  
Next morning, I was roused from my bed by Bob knocking on the door. Apparently there'd been deep doings at the Pony the night before. For one thing, the four Shire-hobbits had apparently picked up Strider as a travelling companion, and there was some tsk-tsking about that.   


That startled me a little, although I was wise enough not to show it, but the other news was even more startling. No sooner had everyone at the inn finally headed to their beds last night than some rogues had broken into the inn through the very suite in the North Wing where the Shire-hobbits had been staying. Beds torn to shreds, bolsters scattered and torn, the visiting folk lucky that they hadn't been murdered in their beds, by the sound of things; and Barliman Butterbur in a terrible state because of it all. I was needed at the inn to help tidy up. But that wasn't the end of it all: to top everything off, each and every single horse and pony that had been stabled last night was gone. This included the five ponies brought in last night by the Shire folk, and wasn't there a to-do about that!  


Anyway, Bob wanted to know whether I knew of anyone in the town with a horse or a pony they'd be willing to sell. Unfortunately, the only person I could think of who had anything of the sort available was Bill Ferny. He'd a rather scruffy pony that he was trying to sell for eight silver pence, which was about twice what anyone was willing to pay for the beast. From a shiftless ne'er-do-well thug like Ferny, this was a bargain. Bob nodded sadly as I passed on this information to him, then headed off to try all the other avenues; while I scrambled into my clothes, dragged my hair up into a knot beneath a cap, and headed off to the Pony.  


When I got there, Barliman was in a fine old state, huffing and puffing and blowing and carrying on as though he'd been the one in danger of being murdered. I took one look at him and sent him out the back to Jenny in the kitchen. She'd soothe him down soon enough, so that he could be coherent before the rest of the guests. In the meantime, I roused Nob up from where he was hobnobbing with the Shire folk, instructing him to go out to the kitchens and get a plate for Strider, as well as something for the rest of us to bait on. It was going to be a busy day, after all.  


Once he was out of the room, and I'd ascertained that the Shire folk were deep in their own breakfasting, I quickly walked over to speak with Strider.   


"Any further messages for the North?" I asked him. He looked up at me and shook his head. I nodded and left the taproom.  


  


That was the last I saw of Strider.  


  



	3. 3000 Third Age, Early September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does the barmaid at the Prancing Pony do to earn a little extra coin? Read on, and find out. Features Breelanders, Rangers, Dunedain, Barliman Butterbur, Bill Ferny, Nob, Bob, and the various humans, dwarves and hobbits and other creatures who inhabit or pass through Bree.

**Notes and acknowledgements:**

1) Halbarad, Strider, Barliman Butterbur, Bree and its environs are all created by J R R Tolkien and are used without permission in this work of fanfiction.

2) The elements of both Breelander and Dúnadan life and society that I include in this story are drawn from many sources, however a fair number are my own extrapolation.

3) A sincere thankyou to the people of the Henneth-Annûn mailing list, for their assistance with diverse matters of research and canon authenticity.

4) This story is dedicated, with love and much respect, to all the people who have asked for more of Magda.

5) No money is being made from this. Magda won't agree to sharing her tips with me.

  
**Bree, Third Age, early September 3000**   


  
I should have known that the events of May were going to cause a problem, I suppose. Certainly, I should have known that I'd be facing at least one of the Captains down from the Angle. Of course, it had to be _this_ one, glaring ferociously at me over the edge of a pint of ale, and looking fit to sour every drop in the place. I could cheerfully strangle that "Strider", for giving me that message to pass on. Over his own rune it may have been, but obviously the Captains had decided that rather than disciplining the sender of the message, they'd discipline the carrier. Namely me.  


"How do, sir, and can I get you a bite to eat?" I asked him, smiling sweetly and ignoring the scowl he directed at me. A curt nod was the response to my enquiry, so I bobbed him a curtsey, and headed off to the kitchens, well aware of Barliman watching me, amused. He's aware of my interest in the rangers and he's also aware of which of them I get along with, and which I can't stand for longer than I absolutely have to. This Halbarad is one of the latter bunch. I've seen him about six times since I started in my role as intelligencer, and each and every time he's appeared here, he's been here to reprimand me for something, it seems. Even the first time I saw him, and got the job of intelligencer from him, he looked at me as though I were something he'd have to scrape off his boot later.   


I whisked out to the kitchens, and spoke with Mistress Butterbur.   


"That stuck-up swine Halbarad's here. Can we get his usual, please, Mistress Jenny?"  


Jenny smiled at me, a trifle disapprovingly, but assembled a plate of food for him. "Now, Magda," she said, "just because you don't like the man, you don't have to abuse him, girl. Think of the coin he brings to the Pony, coin that pays your wages, I might add!"  


I sniffed, and pulled a face. "Coin he may bring, but the face he brings along with it! I'm amazed the cider doesn't turn to vinegar each time he visits."  


Jenny chuckled. "Well, to each their own, lass. Possibly he's got a stomach complaint, and that's what makes him so sour. Certainly, he used to visit Mistress Breelindir often, while she was still alive." The memory of the herbwoman brought on a sigh from Jenny. I took the plate and tactfully withdrew. I'd long since got the impression that Jenny had been close to the tiny herbwoman, and that the death of the woman to that wild boar had been something of a blow to her.   


Back to the tap, and I deposited the plate in front of the Captain with a smile and a polite word. I received back his coin, and the tiny twist of parchment that he customarily used to ask for information. I took the coin, and pocketed the parchment to read later. My lack of speed at reading (and my need to puzzle out the words individually) was another of his reasons for disapproving of me, along with my being female, and my apparent taste for Rangers to go in my bed. His exchanges with me were usually down at my brothers' farm, where he could pretend to be taking mail from our Dúnadan kin to my brothers for their perusal. That, along with his attitude toward my being a halfbreed and a woman, were my principal reasons for disliking him.   


I could remember all too well his behaviour toward my family in the Angle when they'd fostered me up there. It had mainly been exasperation at having another child for his patrols to have to protect (an attitude which had made my aunt Tangliniwen snort and ask him how he was planning to prevent pregnancies, if this was such a problem), but there was a fair amount of anger at having a "half-breed Breelander brat" (I believe those were the words) learning the location of his precious Angle. As if I could have told anyone! Two weeks by covered wagon ride is all I could have said, and couldn't have told you the direction had I known it. My aunt took good care of that - I was drugged for the first three days out of Bree, by which time I had no idea which direction we'd gone. On my journey back, I was drugged again, from the same point in the opposite direction. To this day, I couldn't tell you where the Angle is, nor which direction you'd head out of Bree to get there.   


Not that Master High-And-Mighty-I'm-High-Family-And-Important-And-You're-Not-Worthy-Of-My-Notice Halbarad would believe that, no matter how many times anyone told him. Oh no. He got far too much pleasure out of complaining about the standard of my work, and coming down three times a year to tell me off. Hmph.  


I hid the scrap of paper in the locket that Jarge had made for me out of great-granda's old Ranger star. It was a lot smaller than the one Ma had used, more suited to the purposes I would need it for. When I'd started intelligencing, it had quickly become apparent that I'd need somewhere to hide small strips of paper, small items. It was Jarge who'd offered to turn the star into a locket for me. I'd agreed, because Jarge was good with his hands, having done some study with the silversmith up at the Angle before Da had died and the farm had come over to him. He'd done a good job. The star had been turned into a small hexagon, while the six points of the star had been turned inward to overlap slightly over one another and lock. Similar to the puzzle rings that the silversmith created, you had to know the key to making this particular puzzle come apart, or else it locked tight. I liked it, for it was a very handy little toy, and none save myself and my brothers need know what the locket had been prior to its current life.  


My mother's Ranger star was my own treasure. The six-pointed star was kept in a safe place in the wall of the farmhouse out near Archet. Maybe one day I'd pass it on to a son of mine, in memory of our family in the North. I had offered to Aunt Tangliniwen to get the star sent back to the North, when I'd first returned to Bree, but she'd insisted on me keeping it. She was also the one who sent down great-granda's star, when she heard that I was the Breeland intelligencer. I think it was her way of showing that she had faith in me, and in my fitness for the job, as well as being a subtle way of cocking a snook at the snobs back in the Angle.  


Anyway, later that night in my room, by the light of the flickering candle, I read laboriously over the scrap of parchment I'd been given. It was a much-used piece, probably an offcut, so the writing on it was smeared, blobby and hard to make out. I had to guess at some of the words, but it appeared that yes, the rendezvous would be tomorrow, and yes, it would be out at my brothers farm. Oh lovely. I'd have to ask for time off from Barliman, which would be difficult. I'd been out there a week ago on my regular visit, and the inn was currently fairly busy. A party of dwarves had just arrived, going east from the Shire, and Barliman needed me to mind the tap while he tended to their needs.   


I didn't get much sleep that night, as I worried over the problem of how to get out to Archet without compromising my job at the Pony. The next morning, I wound up having a word to Barliman about it, and was surprised when he agreed to me having the day off almost immediately.   


"I hear that Ranger visiting has news of your kin, and needs to tell it to the three of you all together. I do hope it's not a death in the family," Barliman told me.   


Now that frightened me. A death in the family? I couldn't imagine who that might be. The last I'd seen of Aunt Tangliniwen, she'd been healthy and hale, still running the trade route between the Angle and Bree, selling good silverwork and leatherworks, as well as tanned hides, furs, and weaving. None of my cousins had ever struck me as the type to prentice themselves to the Rangers - they none of them had the temperament (I'd been the only one of the lot of us that did, and my status as a half-breed meant that I wasn't welcome in the Ranger corps, never mind that I'd not the necessary physicality for the task), which meant that it was highly unlikely that any of them would have been killed, short of my aunt strangling them for being feckless lazy blaggarts and not helping out on the farm. While this latter was possible (especially with Aunt Tangliniwen in a bad mood), it wasn't exactly likely. Uncle Baran? No, he wasn't the type - he was a calm, stolid man, a counterbalance to my more excitable and mercuric Aunt. Granda Angbor was only eighty, so even for our family, he had a good ten years of life left in him yet. The last I'd seen of him, two years ago, he'd been yoking the oxen for work on the farm up at the Angle, a task that Aunt kept swearing he shouldn't be doing any more at his age.   


Rather than work myself into a grand fuss by trying to figure out what that news could be, I lit out for the farm as fast as I could. It would be a couple of hours walk up there at the best of times, and with the rain that had fallen earlier this week, I wasn't looking forward to a "best of times" walk. Thank all the Valar I knew a few shortcuts.   


Four hours later, I was tired, irritable, and covered in mud. Not only had the road been nigh impassable in places, but all of my best short cuts had been covered in brambles and mud as well. I was just glad that Halbarad and I got on like cat and dog, as I would have been furious had he heard me cursing and swearing my way along the road. I reached the farm ahead of him, fortunately, which gave me a little while to get myself cleaned up and back into a more amenable frame of mind. I also boiled up some water in the copper, figuring that no matter which way he travelled, he'd arrive muddy and in need of a wash. Maybe just being nice to him would get that scowl off his face. It was worth a try, anyway.  


I greeted Jarge and Harald when they came in from the harvest with a good hot meal: harvest in damp grain is never joyous, but this one was looking to be a sour harvest anyway. It hadn't been a storm that had ruined the grain: as most folk said, a storm would be understandable, almost acceptable. Instead, there'd been a week of very steady, constant rainfall, which would have been welcome come springtime. However, at point of harvest, it was enough to soak the grain, to the point where the veriest breeze knocked large amounts of it down. So although the grain was available to harvest, it was almost starting to sprout on the stem, which made it fit only for animal fodder. Thank all the Valar that it was only the wheat crop which was affected. The barley wouldn't be ready for harvest for at least a couple of weeks, and the rye had been harvested about a month ago. I listened to the pair of them grumbling their way through the meal, and was thankful once again that things had been a bit busy at the Pony recently. Busy enough, at least, that I was staying in my room there. If I'd had to be staying up at the farm, I'd have slaughtered the pair of 'em like the oxen they were.   


They'd got about two-thirds of the way through the meal when there was a knock at the door. Probably Halbarad, I thought, as I got up to answer it. I was right - it was the Ranger, carrying a large parcel. I admitted Halbarad to the house, offered him food, water for washing and ale for drinking, in a polite enough tone. He looked sideways at me, trying to determine whether or not I was being sarcastic (which at that point, I wasn't), but appeared to accept the offer politely enough. After a wash, he came back into the main room of the house looking slightly less sour than usual. Jarge and Harald had finished eating by this point and were looking to go back out to the field to try to salvage what they could from the crop.   


"Magda says that you've information about our kin," Jarge said to Halbarad. "Is it information you'll be needing either of us for, or can we get on with our work?"  


Halbarad looked up from the plate of food I'd set before him, which he'd been inhaling at a tremendous rate. "It both is and isn't," he replied. "Neither of you have to stay, but it would be appreciated if you did."  


My two brothers looked at each other and sat back down at the table.  


"Magda, fetch me another ale," Harald commanded as he sat.  


"Fetch it yourself, you great lummox. I'm your sister, not your wife!" I retorted, not looking up from the stewpot I was stirring by the fire.   


"Hmph," was the only reply. "For a barmaid, you're lousy at keeping the drink coming."   


That did make me look up, to find Harald grinning at me with mischief in his eyes. I raised my eyebrows at him. "If you want me to fetch ale for you, you'll need to supply me with coin. That's the bargain."  


Jarge grinned also and flipped a couple of coppers to me. "Fetch the ale, wench!"  


I caught the coins, putting them safely into the purse around my neck. "Two ales for the two gentlemen? Why certainly, after being asked so nicely."  


I turned, went to the cupboard and got out a couple of very small mugs. In point of fact, they were the ones which were used for drinking the applejack that my brothers made each winter. I filled each mug with ale, then brought them over to my two brothers, placing them carefully on the table. The expressions on their faces were comical to see, making me giggle. Halbarad, who'd been watching the whole byplay with keen-eyed solemnity, was even forced to smile. He reached down beside himself, bringing forth the parcel that he'd carried with him. Presumably he'd brought it all the way from the Angle. Despite myself, my curiosity was caught: after all, usually, if we're getting something from the Angle, it's brought by Aunt Tang, in her trade wagon.  


"This is something I've been holding in trust now, for twenty-two years," he told us all. "It was given me by your mother, on her first Yule in Bree. She asked me to hold it in trust for her offspring. She said that one of you might mish to range the world, by which I understood that it was to be given to that one of you who best suited the temperament of the rangers."  


He drew forth a bow and a sword, placing them on the table. Both were well-maintained, from what I could see, and both were well-crafted. He looked up at me.  


"Magda, although you're not able to become a ranger in fact, you're certainly a ranger in spirit. Normally, we present a new ranger with their bow, sword and star in front of the whole of the community up at the Angle. Will you forgive me for not doing this?" He seemed sincere about it, and he had a smile on his face which made him look a lot younger, and a lot more handsome. I smiled back.  


"Certainly, sir. What I do in Bree isn't supposed to be well-known, anyway," I replied. I couldn't believe this. Although it wasn't the same as Aunt Tang's gift of the ranger Star, it was just as much an acknowledgement of what I was doing, and how valuable it was to the Dúnedain as any formal endowment.  


"You might be pleased to know," Halbarad continued, "that your prowess and skill in your task has been recognised by the Chieftain himself. He says that you strike him as one of the best ranger intelligencers he's had the pleasure of meeting in years, because you use the intelligence you have, as well as the intelligence you gain."  


My brow furrowed. I'm sure I'd remember meeting the Chieftain, and I was certain that I hadn't seen him at all. In fact, about the only new ranger that I'd seen in the whole time I'd been intelligencing in Bree was...  


"Strider!" I couldn't believe it. "Strider is the Chieftain?"  


That brought a laugh out of Halbarad. Jarge and Harald were laughing too, probably as much out of amusement on the expression that was on my face, as from anything else. Of course, they knew about Strider - they'd heard the gossip, and knew the truth of the tale as well. I'd been hard pushed to stop the two of them from going after Bill Ferny on their own accord when they'd heard it. So there I was, still stunned to realise that the ranger I'd spoken to with such cheek was the Chieftain of the Dúnedain himself, with three men sitting there and laughing themselves silly at me. How nice.  


Halbarad was the first to sober himself, on seeing how red my cheeks were, and how embarrassed I looked. He nodded at me. "It was the fact that you were so insistent on not sending that message under your own rune that convinced him that you knew what you were doing," I was told. "Most of the intelligencers would have just sent the message under their own rune, and had it discarded in the inevitable shuffle that comes of trying to stretch too few Rangers over too large an area. That you insisted that he write the note out and affix his own rune to it was a good step, in his eyes."  


I blushed even harder. "All I could think," I confessed, "was that if I sent something like that out, I'd be having every single ranger who replied to it coming into the Pony to tell me off for my cheek."  


"Yes, and you told him so," Halbarad said, still smiling. "He was quite impressed - most of the intelligencers don't think that far ahead. Anyway, it was on his recommendation that I decided to bring down the bow and the sword. They're yours anyway - you deserve them, and have any time these two years - but I thought that it was worth letting you know that you're the best intelligencer in the ranks."  


I blushed even harder. Well, this was something else to add to my list of Halbarad's faults: he couldn't even let me carry on and hold a grudge against him. Ach, was there ever such an infuriating man?  


  
*** 


	4. 3001 Third Age, Mid-October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does the barmaid at the Prancing Pony do to earn a little extra coin? Read on, and find out. Features Breelanders, Rangers, Dunedain, Barliman Butterbur, Bill Ferny, Nob, Bob, and the various humans, dwarves and hobbits and other creatures who inhabit or pass through Bree.

Author's notes:  


  
1) Bilbo Baggins, Barliman Butterbur, the town of Bree and its environs, the Prancing Pony are all copyright J R R Tolkien, and are used without permission in this work of fan fiction.   
  
2) While Bill Ferny is a character created by J R R Tolkien, his father Joe is my own creation.   
  
3) This story is dedicated to Anglachel and Dwimordene, brilliant writers both, and suppliers of plotbunnies to the masses of Henneth-Annûn. Without those plotbunnies, this probably would have arrived about two months earlier.  
  
4) No money is being made from this story. Magda says she doesn't get paid enough as it is, and there's no way she's going to share her tips with me.   
  
***  


  
3001 Third Age, mid-October.  


  
The arrival of the mixed party from down the West Road had caused a minor stir in Bree, as had their booking rooms at the Prancing Pony. I've no idea whatsoever why that last caused a stir, since we're the only establishment in town which offers accommodation, but there you go. I suppose it was all connected with the fuss and bother that had been happening over in the Shire for the past month. We hadn't seen much of it here in Bree, but everyone knew that a lot of money was being laid out, and that a lot of merchants had been through.   


  
That last had kept me busy. I'd had no more time than to jot down a quick list of all the merchants rushing through the place, as well as a quick indication of what they appeared to be selling and to send that up to the Angle by bird. What with all the merchants passing through delivering goods to the Shire, as well as the ones passing back, selling what they had over, I'd not had a chance to do more than turn around and draw breath for the past month or more. However, it appeared to have died down in the last few weeks. Nary a merchant to be seen since about a week ago. Now here was this party of hobbits and dwarves, come from the direction of the Shire. Something more for my report, I think.   


  
I greeted them all when they came into the tap. The hobbit was a cheery chap, like most of them are, although he had the air of someone who hadn't been sleeping well for the last couple of days. His clothes were travelworn, but also a bit baggy on him, as though he'd suddenly lost weight. Also, I noticed that whenever he thought people weren't paying attention to him, he'd sink into a kind of stillness. The stillness vanished whenever he was spoken to, or whenever he perceived that someone was watching him, but it was still there, in the background. I had the suspicion that he hadn't been well - he reminded me of how some of the local children would be after an illness. All fun and games and jollity on the outside, but easily tired, easily made restless, and easily provoked to the point of crying.   


  
Fortunately, that last wasn't something I had to worry about with him. Instead, I served him and his comrades their ale and remained in my place behind the tap. It was my task this night to watch the cash box - there'd been some money missing the previous night, and although none of us said anything, Barliman, Nob and I all suspected the light fingers of the Ferny clan had been itching again. Question was, of course, whether it was Joe, or his son Bill. Either way, we weren't leaving the cash box out of sight of one of us, preferably two. So, Nob was on table service (food, drink and empties collection), I was on the tap and the cash box, while Barliman supervised.   


  
This put me into a perfectly good place to hear much of the discussion that ensued. One hobbit and five dwarves, all talking away about some party or another. Possibly this had something to do with what had been happening in the Shire, recently. I couldn't resist asking questions. It's my job, after all.  


  
"Excuse me, sirs," I said, putting my comment into a quiet moment in the conversation, "but I couldn't help but hearing of the party in the Shire. Would that be something planned for Yule?"  


  
The old hobbit shook his head, smiling broadly. "Oh no, no, no. There's nothing that grand planned for Yule in the Shire. Oh no. The party we're talking about is the party for Mad Baggins!"  


  
"Oh, that sounds interesting, sir," I said, playing up to the hobbit. I could see he had a tale, and I could also see that he was bursting to tell it. "Could you tell us all about it?"   


  
"For you, dear lass, anything!" he replied, laughing. "Truth to tell, it's a tale which is worthy of being told to as many as possible, for it is a tale of special magnificence."  


  
By now, a number of people in the common room had begun to listen in eagerly. The old hobbit looked around, appreciating his audience. I could see him beginning to perk up, to take an interest in the people around him.  


  
"The tale," he continued, "concerns Mad Baggins." He paused dramatically, clearly expecting a response. When he didn't get one, he decided to carry on with the tale, although I suspect he embroidered it a fair bit. "Mad Baggins is the greatest Hobbit hero of a generation," he said. "He travelled far and travelled wide, slaying trolls, meeting elves, rescuing captives from captivity, fighting giant spiders, and captivating all with his bravery and valor, until he travelled at last to the far-off Lonely Mountain, and there he slew a dragon, and captured its treasure."  


  
Now what was there in that to make the dwarves chuckle so? A couple of them had even choked on their ale.  


  
"But that was many years ago, and Mad Baggins had long since returned to the Shire. He'd filled up his hole with the gold and jewels, and was the richest Hobbit in the Shire. And for a while he enjoyed that: eating off gold plates, sleeping on silk and linen, wearing fine clothes and brocades. But after a while, he grew weary of riches, and he desired more adventures. For an adventurer's life is a fine life, with no man to answer, none to call master, and none to call servant.  


  
"Yet Mad Baggins knew that were he just to leave his Hobbit hole in the Shire, he would not get far. For the folk of the Shire disapprove of those who wander. They feel that people should stay where they were put. To the Shire-folk, it was long since time that Mad Baggins had set aside wandering, leaving the roving life behind. Mad Baggins could not leave openly, for he would be required to explain his actions to each and every hobbit he passed on the road, at length, and in detail. Why, it would have taken him a year to get through Hobbiton alone!"  


  
There was an appreciative chuckle here from the local hobbit-folk, some of whom had always been of the opinion that Shire-folk were often a little too busy about others' business at times. There was an equally appreciative chuckle from the rest of the Breefolk, who knew that the local hobbits were just as inquisitive, if not more so.   


  
"So, in the end," the old hobbit continued, "Mad Baggins came up with a clever plan to distract those who were far too interested in his business, rather than being concerned with minding their own. He announced that he would be holding a party of special magnificence. This, of course, set the whole Shire to talking and speculating as to what that Mad Baggins was up to now. He let them talk. He had something planned, something special, something which would startle the respectable Shirefolk out of their complacency!"  


  
At this point I noticed the old hobbit's face. He was taking a positively malicious glee in the telling. A suspicion began to grow in my mind that perhaps this old hobbit wasn't as detatched from the events of the tale as he made out. I decided to keep my suspicions hidden for the while, though. Instead, I refilled the cup of the storyteller, listening closely all the while.  


  
"Well, anyway," the old hobbit continued, "Mad Baggins planned carefully. He prepared for the party most assiduously, determining every detail of the festivities, but spending most of his time in planning his grand jest on the Shire-folk. Eventually the day of the party dawned bright and clear. Half the Shire had been invited, and the rest were showing up anyhow, so people started flocking to the Party Field early. By the time the guest of honour arrived, the party was already in full swing. Mad Baggins did the standard hostly duties, giving out gifts to all the partygoers, as well as meeting and greeting people. The party was a great success, and eventually it came to be time for the formal part of the party.  


  
"All of the party-goers demanded that Mad Baggins give them a speech. So up got Mad Baggins, onto a barrel beneath the Party Tree, and gave his farewell speech. When he said 'goodbye', he vanished in a puff of smoke, and was never seen again! The Shire has been talking about nothing else since."  


  
I took another look at the tale-teller. He had a look on his face that compared with that of a lot of the gaffers in Bree, as well as a number of the hobbits from Staddle and elsewhere when they were recalling a wonderful trick they'd played on a friend as children. I kept my peace, though, through the cheers, the questions, and the drinks that were purchased for the old Hobbit as the townsfolk showed their appreciation for his story. Eventually at the end of the night, it came time for the dwarves and the hobbit to be escorted to their various rooms. I offered to show the hobbit on his way, even though this wasn't strictly my task. Barliman accepted this gladly, so that he could keep an eye on the cashbox.   


  
"Goodnight, Mr Baggins," I said, having brought the old hobbit to the room where his baggage had been put, and checked that the fire was lit, as well as hot water supplied. I was quite pleased to see him start a little at my comment.  


  
"Goodness, no, I'm not Mr Baggins," he said, sounding rather flustered. I just looked at him, giving him a smile as I did so.   


  
"I'd say you were, sir," I told him. "I'd also say that the tale you told is going to be so popular that the identity of the teller is going to change in no time flat. Enjoy your journeying, sir. Maybe you'll come back through Bree on your return, and tell us another tale."  


  
At that he gave me a rather sad smile. "If I come back through Bree, I shall give you a tale worth the knowing of. However, I don't know that I will be returning to the Shire at all. I thank you for your assistance, Miss..."  


  
"Breeton. Magda Breeton at your service, sir," I told him, bobbing a curtsey as I did so. He bowed to me in return, then came over to me, and pushed something into my hand.   


  
"A bit more of a thankyou," he said, ushering me out of the room. As I got outside the door, I took a look at what he'd put in my hand. A gold dwarven crown. More money than I'd owned in my life, and this hobbit gives it to me as a tip. Something fishy there, and no bones about it. I realised he was buying my silence, and privately, I decided that silent I'd be on the matter in Bree, but the Rangers needed to know about it, and more particularly, the Chieftain needed to know. I'd best send a bird to the Angle, and find out when "Strider" was due through. Failing that, I knew that my Aunt Tangliniwen would be heading back this way some time soon. She'd find a way to get the message through to the Chieftain, if anyone could.   


  
I hid the coin within my purse, and decided to have a word to the old hobbit on the next day. Just private-like, before they all set out. Flashing that kind of coin about was a sure recipe for trouble, and I'd heard that the roads were starting to become dangerous. After all, he'd bought more than my silence with that amount of money - he'd bought my speech on matters that could be troublesome.   



	5. 3002 Third Age, April

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does the barmaid at the Prancing Pony do to earn a little extra coin? Read on, and find out. Features Breelanders, Rangers, Dunedain, Barliman Butterbur, Bill Ferny, Nob, Bob, and the various humans, dwarves and hobbits and other creatures who inhabit or pass through Bree.

3002 Third Age, April.

_I wish I may, I wish in vain, I wish I were a maid again,_   


  
There's Pimpernell Greenlea, regretting her marriage again. She had her heart so set on having the richest man in the district to wed. Pity is she forgot how Charlie Greenlea made his wealth - by being the biggest skin-flint in the district. I still can't believe she thought she'd be able to wheedle coin for finery from him. She may have been the prettiest maid in the district, but she's going to grow into the sourest wife unless she learns to make the best of what she's got. She's in here most nights, drinking until she's sad enough to sing. Always the same song, too.  


  
I do hope she learns a different tune someday.  


  
I hope she learns a little self-respect, too. 'Nell, you're not going to get out of the marriage you don't want any more by flirting with lads in here. All's going to happen is Charlie will hear of it, and you'll learn the hard way what he does to those as harm his property. You're being a fool, girl. I'd best have a word with Barliman – she's had enough to drink for the one night.  


  
_But a maid again I can never be, until apples grow on an ivy tree._   


  
Or in my case at least, until the younger maids and wives of Bree realise I'm not after their silly sweethearts or husbands. Honestly, do they think I'm fool enough to want some farmer with barely more conversation than his oxen, or a man who'll talk hunting until I take to and shoot him myself? If that was what I wanted, I could get it to spare and more from Harald and Jarge.   


  
I'm finding more and more these days I'm wondering why I chose to do what I'm doing. I chose a life where I'm regarded as a lightskirt by the women, as a tease by the men, and as a stranger by most of the folk in town, and all for what? Some obscure belief I've got a duty to these folk. I must have been crazed. I think I need to speak with Aunt Tang again, get a bit of a reminder of what I'm really doing it for.   


  
_There is an alehouse in the town, and there my love, he sits him down_   


  
Along with every other man in town, and a good half of the women as well, let's be truthful. It's not like I wouldn't have witnesses should I make a play for one of the husbands or the lads. Just the same as 'Nell Greenlea. There's going to be harm done to someone one day soon, should she keep playing up the way she is. Harvest is nearly done, and Charlie's going to start coming back for a drink now and then. He'll see his wife acting the flirt with half the town, and like as not I'll be blamed for it.   


  
Thank heavens for Barliman Butterbur and his wife. Jenny is such a sweet woman, and she's done more to influence me into staying in Bree and not lighting out for the south than anyone else here. After all, if I weren't here, who'd she talk to? She lost so much when Mistress Breelindir died, I'm starting to see now. I keep wondering about who else Mistress Breelindir's life touched on.   


  
Well, there was mine, and Jarge, Harald and Da. Mine in particular – I'm told if Mistress Breelindir hadn't been attending the birthing, I'd have been born dead. As it was, I was born alive, but the birthing hurt Ma so much she didn't dare have another child. Then Da took up with his lightskirt from who-knows-where, and things got ticklish again.   


  
_He takes a stranger upon his knee, and tells her things that he once told me._   


  
The funny thing about Da's lightskirt is nobody knows who the woman was, or where she came from, or where she went to. She's said to have had dark hair and brown eyes, and to have been slim, rather like Ma was when she was a girl. Strikes me as odd that she lit out of town, her and all her kin, and haven't been seen hide nor hair of since. Maybe I should start asking questions about her. After all, she's responsible for a lot of things, in her own way. Possibly I should thank her for my time at the Angle?  


  
Now, I wonder who'd be best to speak to about the matter? I've a feeling the women are the ones who'd hold this information, the ones who were women grown at around the time that Ma died. I'll start with Mistress Jenny, I think. It'll be a good way of building bridges to the woman.   


  
Which reminds me, I must get to and send a bird off to the Angle again. Bill Ferny's thieving ways are starting to cause more gossip than they're due, which means 'tis time to get someone to stop off for a day or two in Bree. Then there's the wolves the hunters are reporting. I swear, we're getting more of them each year. I wonder what's happening up Fornost way – if we're seeing the wolves this far south, I'd hate to think what things look like up there. Maybe it's time to make a suggestion at the town meeting about getting the hunters out to chase down the wolves.  


  
I might include a little note for Aunt Tang in with the rest of the message. I know they frown on it, but I want to find Da's lightskirt. She needs to know he's died, at least. I must admit, thinking on the matter, it seems a bit odd. Ma and Da had been fighting a while when she showed up, according to Jarge. Something about me getting near old enough for something. Jarge didn't give me details, but given what happened, I think I can guess what they were. Then this lightskirt shows up, and Ma goes to Da's bed, to give him another child. 'Course, Ma died trying to birth the poor little thing, and Da went straight to the arms of his lightskirt for consolation.   


  
I can almost remember something about her name. Something about her saying I was old enough for something. Da was muttering it when he came to my room one night, drunk as an orc.   


  
I do want to find her. I've a feeling there's a score to be settled.  


  
_Oh love and porter make a young girl older, and love and whisky make her old and grey_   


  
Barliman's ale seems to be a good old crop this year. He's got most of the town overjoyed by the whole business. Well, all except for the Fernys, who appear to have decided the reason that Barliman retired from the ale competition all those years ago was so he never had to compete with their rotgut. The stuff Bill Ferny carries in his flask may have a kick on it like a bad-tempered pony, but I've yet to see anyone save the most confirmed drunkards coming back for more.   


  
Oh, and poor 'Nell. Ach, it near pains my liver seeing someone so upset they'll drink Joe Ferny's rotgut without being bribed to first.  


  
_But what cannot be cured, love, must be endured love, and now I am bound for an early grave_   


  
She doesn't know the truth she's speaking. Keep drinking the Ferny's brew, and an early grave is probably the least of the problems you'll have, 'Nell. That stuff's like to send you blind and rot out your mind. It can't be so terrible being married to Charlie Greenlea you'd prefer either of those to waking alongside him each morning.  


  
_Oh love is pleasing and love is teasing, and love is a pleasure when first it's new_  
But as love grows older, then love grows colder, and fades away like the morning dew.  


  
Oh dear. I'd best pick 'Nell up from the floor. She can sleep on my bed tonight. That should keep the gossips busy. I wonder, should I take a virgin goat in there next week?  


  
“Come on 'Nell, lovey, upsy daisy.”   


  
Whoops... might not have been the wisest move I've made today. Here's hoping Nob is quick with the cloth and the sawdust. I'll take her up to the room, and she can sleep it off there.   


  
“Stop glaring at me, Barliman, I'll pay for the room for her, if you'd like. You can stop glaring at me too, Joe Ferny. 'Nell didn't need your rotgut, nor your clammy hands all over her. Now step back a touch, or I'll just let 'Nell give you the rest of what you so richly deserve.”  


  
“No, Nob, I'm right.”  


  
She's not too heavy for me, and I'll be best suited to making certain she's comfortable anyway. Come on, 'Nell. Up the stairs we go. We'll pop you down in a bed all to yourself, and you can get a bit of well-deserved rest. Now, let's just loosen your stays, so that you can breathe a bit easier...  


  
Oh my.   


  
“'Nell, are these bruises from you falling down drunk, or from Charlie helping you to fall down?”  


  
Looks as though there's going to be a bit more work to be done around here. Starting with a word with Charlie Greenlea in the morning.   


  
***  
[Author's notes  
  
1) The lyrics are from a traditional folk song, called either “Waly Waly” or, as in this version, “Love is Pleasing”. This version can be heard sung by Marianne Faithful on the Chieftains album “The Long Black Veil”.  
2) Standard drill - Tolkien owns what's Tolkien's, I own what's mine, and Magda owns her tips. No money is therefore being made from this story.] 


End file.
